


Wedding Night

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Greg Calling Him Out On It, Hand Jobs, Implied Past Sherlock/Greg, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherstrade, Tumblr, feelings are complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It had been so long, too long, Sherlock was a voracious kisser, couldn’t get enough, and Greg knew they’d both have whisker-burned faces in the morning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wedding Night

He didn’t remember leaving the outside light on. Kitchen door was hanging open about six inches, too. Lock looked all right, though, nothing forced. He’d have thought maybe the kids, but not only wasn’t it his weekend, but his ex had made a stink about taking them out of school Friday and Monday for a trip to her sister’s in the Lakes District despite his protestations that school was their job and she was setting them up for a poor work ethic.

So which came first—the clues coalescing into a solution, or the sight of his enormous, coal-grey coat abandoned in a crooked heap across the tabletop?

Greg shook himself out of his own coat, draped it over a chairback, shut the door and turned the lock. Let his eyes lead him. The overdramatic coat, then just this side of the doorway, a shoe that surely cost more than Greg had spent on all the shoes of his adult life. A yard or so beyond that, in the lounge, the other shoe. Greg loosened his necktie as he followed the trail. Crumpled rose buttonhole visible in an otherwise amorphous dark lump: the morning coat. Pale golden necktie balled up in the corner of the bottom step, and a white shirt draped carelessly over the lower end of the banister. Greg dug his hand into its folds, dragged it along as he climbed the stairs, raised it to his face and inhaled, as if he needed the proof. He bit his lips, realising how much he’d missed it—the smell of him.

Against the wall at the top of the stairs, the dark puddle of his trousers. A yard further on, first one silk sock, then the other. Greg’s bedroom door left open slightly, and he knew the quality of light—the bedside lamp, too dim to read by, he’d been meaning to get a better bulb, a thinner shade—and he reached to unbutton his shirt cuff as he nudged open the door with the toe of his shoe.

“This isn’t at all the sort of book I thought I’d find by your bedside, Detective Inspector.”

Sherlock was nude, of course, with the bed sheet looped and draped prettily over and around him, lying on his side, leaning up on one elbow, holding Greg’s bedside book in one hand. Both his long feet exposed, one seven-league leg bare and drawn up slightly, every edge of tendon and muscle shadowed and lit like a painting by one of the old masters. Most of his taut bare belly was exposed, his chest turned just slightly upward and out for best effect, those long arms, those hands, those fingers. Sherlock was an optical illusion: in clothes, his body was all sharp, jutting angles, an off-putting visual clatter that threatened to cut; in the nude, he was all soft curves of muscle and flesh, every rounded surface issuing its own invitation to touch.

“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock.” Under his breath, couldn’t even bring himself to look away, despite the fact he was meant to be protesting.

Sherlock was wearing Greg’s reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He looked up then and Greg could see in his expression some of the Sherlock he’d first met, young, languid, a bit lost. It flickered, then passed; in the years since his faked suicide, every trace of the softness of youth had given way to the image of a grown man; there were lines beside his eyes now, and the creases in his forehead never went completely smooth. Sherlock set the book aside on the night stand, extended his hand, palm-up, his eyebrows rising. Like a sleepwalker, Greg stepped forward, slipped his palm against Sherlock’s, went for the specs with his other hand and plucked them from Sherlock’s angular face.

“You should get a pair. They make you look smart.” Greg’s knee landed on the mattress as Sherlock’s hand pulled him insistently closer, and closer still.

“I always look smart.”

Sherlock’s chin tilted up, his face straining forward, and at once Greg could taste the sweet rot of too much champagne and a couple slugs of something stronger on the inside of Sherlock’s—god so perfect, rough and soft at once, like none Greg had ever kissed—pale pink, plush-and-pointed lips. Sherlock released his hand, and a good thing, too, because there was so much bare skin that wanted touching, and Sherlock went on kissing him, kissing him. It had been so long, too long, Sherlock was a voracious kisser, couldn’t get enough, and Greg knew they’d both have whisker-burned faces in the morning. Greg drew back, didn’t want to get ahead of himself.

“Don’t like my book?” he murmured, looked down to watch Sherlock’s long fingers unbuttoning his shirt, ran a hand over the bare hip, down across his plump bum, and just that much had him nearly fully hard on its own; he dipped down to kiss Sherlock’s jaw, there beside his ear, and Sherlock hummed encouragement.

The book was Gabriel Garcia Marquez, impossible events and intertwined love stories, written in near-poetry. It was Greg’s favourite; he re-read it every year.

“Figured you’d prefer mysteries,” Sherlock told him, and dug out his shirttails from the back of his trousers, shoved the shirt down his shoulders so Greg could shrug out of it. “Maybe you could learn a few things about good detective work.”

“I’m just not as devoted as you,” Greg said. The phrase changed meaning between his breath and the air, and it landed like a lead weight between them. Sherlock looked down at the mattress, and his mouth screwed up crookedly, as if he’d tasted something bad. Greg caught his chin, resolved to say nothing else that evening that didn’t contain the words, _yes, more, gorgeous, cock_ , and/or _fuck_. He kissed Sherlock hard, reassuring him that this wasn’t about settling for less, or making up for loss, or any other feelings-based bullshit. He knew—of course he knew—Sherlock wanted a distraction from all that. So Greg would give him a distraction.

“Lie back; I want to taste you.”

Sherlock did as he was told, leaning back and tucking a pillow behind his neck as Greg shifted down the bed, leaned to rest his now-bare chest on Sherlock’s thigh so he could curl his tongue inside Sherlock’s knee, the skin at the crease softer and hairless and vaguely salty. He pressed his open lips there, and Sherlock’s leg twitched. Greg arranged himself more or less upright, stroked his hand up one long, bare thigh, dragging the hairs the wrong way, raising gooseflesh. He quickly toed off his shoes then moved to plant his knees on either side of Sherlock’s feet, crawling upward as he traced the same path up the pale thigh now with his cheek and chin, the tip of his nose, veered toward Sherlock’s hip as his mouth came open against cool skin. The sheet was in a rumpled tangle covering the very best bits, but there was a tempting vision of dark hair concentrated on Sherlock’s upper thigh, then more, a wispy trail above the hem of the sheet, on his low belly (Greg was tempted to sink his teeth into that softest place on Sherlock’s body).

Instead, he slipped one hand beneath Sherlock’s bottom and urged him up, and Sherlock obliged, rolling languidly onto his side with a sigh as if settling in to sleep. Greg licked his lips, opened his mouth, slid languorous kisses down his hip onto his buttock, yielding and soft, with taut muscle beneath, round and smooth and

“. . . _mmm_. . .gorgeous. . .”

and he dragged his chin upward along the cleft, kissed Sherlock there at the very top, between his dimples, then kissed along Sherlock’s lowest rib, up his quivering stomach (Sherlock settled down onto his back once more, and the sheet slipped, but still not enough to reveal him). As Greg’s mouth closed around a dusky pink nipple, flicking with tongue-tip, worrying with the edges of teeth, his brain went noisy with _I’ve missed this, I’ve missed you, it’s been too long, you’re the same but you’ve changed_ , and he released Sherlock’s nipple to cross his chest, lips and tongue and breath, glanced up lazily and only asked,

“More?”

In reply, Sherlock’s long fingers landed at the back of his neck and on the crown of his head, Sherlock’s muscular chest arching up to meet him as Greg licked, rolled, sucked until Sherlock gasped and his hips thrust up and the bed sheet finally slipped out of the way.

More deep, slow kisses—humming, moaning—and it was comfortable, familiar, the way their mouths fit together, the give and take, push, pull, lick, suck. Sherlock was utterly sure-handed as he unfastened Greg’s trousers, and he remembered he had to reach across to the other side of the bed for the drawer with the slick, the condoms, a stack of stroke mags Greg kept as if the internet had never been invented.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Greg muttered, grateful for the chance to bury his nose in the nook under Sherlock’s arm, for the chance to lightly inhale his low, masculine scent. “Fuck. . . _Sherlock_. . .”

Sherlock hushed him, clutched his wrist and doused them both with a cool stream of the slippery, spread it between their brushing palms. Each reached for the other and they let out simultaneous unselfconscious, noisy groans of relief as they set a lazy pace, pulling and stroking, palms rounding the crowns, sliding, reaching down to roll bollocks, mouths wide open against each other’s necks, jaws,

“Yes. . .Sherlock, _yes, please_ , yes. . .”

Silenced with a kiss, Greg dug fingers into Sherlock’s thick waves of hair, clutched, then tugged in slow motion until Sherlock whimpered into his mouth.

“Like it do you?” Greg muttered. “Like my hand on your cock?” Sherlock had always proved himself the perfect, eager audience for Greg’s penchant for pillow talk, bless his head.

Sherlock nodded, rested his forehead momentarily against Greg’s cheek, twisted his wrist in that cunning way he had that made Greg think he might actually go insane (not that he minded). “So hot in my hand,” Greg muttered, and slid the ring of his forefinger and thumb slowly down from the crown, aware of the raised path of the vein on the underside of the otherwise silky-sheathed shaft as he went. “It’s gorgeous; I can feel you thrumming against my fingers.” Sherlock moaned, low and loud, tilted his head until their mouths met again, briefly, noisily, Sherlock’s long-fingered hand push-pulling Greg’s own aching prick in a much more urgent rhythm. The tongue-tip worrying the inner corner of Greg’s lips let him know he was meant to talk, not to kiss. “So hard,” he murmured, and slipped his hand back up, circled his palm, caught drizzling pre-cum and smeared it back down, gripping firm so Sherlock’s foreskin shifted back as he went. “Dripping for me like this. . .fucking beautiful.”

Sherlock gasped, let out a deep, “ _Oh_!” and rocked his hips desperately.

Greg dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ve missed this. . .missed you.”

A sound from Sherlock then, a sort of scolding whine that broke at the end as Greg finished the tease and set a pace that matched Sherlock rolling up to meet him.

Greg shut his own mouth by sealing it to Sherlock’s, sucking that fat pink lower lip between his own, scraping it with his teeth. A moment, two, and they broke apart, both panting, leaning together at shoulders and chests and cheeks and foreheads as they moved along and against each other. Greg bit down on every word he might have said in case the wrong ones got out, but Sherlock made the most glorious noises—deep, delicious hums; overloud moans; positively obscene but oh-so-encouraging grunts—and Greg wished he could trap them in jars with no air-holes, twist the lids to hear them again every day and night forever. The verge of orgasm always had brought out the romantic poet in him.

And then Sherlock shivered, shuddered, threw his head back and up, baring his long, sturdy throat as if in offering, and let out a tormented, drawn-out _Ohhh_ as he came across Greg’s hand, the rumpled-up bed sheet between their bellies, and Greg allowed himself, “Yes, yes. . . _Sherlock. . .yesss_. . .”

That breathy hiss through gritted teeth called Sherlock back down into the moment and he quick-licked his palm to get the slick going again (clever man), then set his sex-softened gaze onto Greg’s, it was almost too much, but they stayed right there in it as Sherlock’s skillful hand worked from memory—found the tempo, the pressure, the perfectly-timed flick of the wrist—until Greg couldn’t but bite his lip, screw his eyes shut, gruff out a half-shout as Sherlock finished him, quietly murmuring encouragement, dragging the tips of long fingers languidly along his length to draw forth one last full-body shudder. When Greg opened his eyes, Sherlock looked pleased with himself, grinning, then closed his eyes and fell back onto the pillow.

Greg knew him too well.

“You have to stay the night,” he said, low and serious.

Sherlock half-opened one eye. His face was still placid but already his body was tightening, every twitch of muscle aiming for _up_ and _out_ and _away_.

The glance implied a demand for justification.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Sherlock. I know that.” He mopped them up with the bundle of bed sheet, just for something to do. “But there’s a line between it doesn’t mean anything, and just being _used_. And I think I deserve to stay on the fair side.”

Sherlock hummed, and closed his eye again. He scratched himself high on his chest. Greg reached into his nightstand drawer, shook loose a pair of cigarettes from a soft-cornered packet, set them between his lips and struck one of the last matches to light them. He shook out the match, made sure it didn’t land on the Garcia Marquez book, and set a smoke between Sherlock’s parted lips. He balanced a green glass ashtray on top of his thigh. They lay back against the headboard and the crooked pillows and smoked and didn’t talk.

“You never asked me to stay,” Sherlock said at last, “Before.” He tilted his head, indicating that other time: before John stopped loving him, before he died, before John started loving him, before he’d married the work.

“You never needed it.” Greg stubbed out his cigarette, passed the ashtray to Sherlock and he did the same. “ _Before_. And now you do.”

Greg clicked off the lamp, settled himself, pulled a quilt over them both. He resisted sleep as long as he could, and for at least that long Sherlock didn’t move to touch him, but he stayed.


End file.
